


The Little Mermaid

by SixofCrowsBabies



Category: The Grisha Trilogy - Leigh Bardugo
Genre: Acting, Alternate Universe - Actors, Alternate Universe - Theatre, F/M, Gen, Multi Chapter, Of course my theatre nerd self had to write this, Only the first 5 are major, Rating May Change, The little mermaid - Freeform, Theatre, actor!alina, director!darkling, mal is an unsuccessful one tho ha, the others are all actors
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-06
Updated: 2019-02-12
Packaged: 2019-10-23 10:40:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 9,657
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17681894
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SixofCrowsBabies/pseuds/SixofCrowsBabies
Summary: Two weeks before The Little Mermaid opens, Alina Starkov, an unknown off-Broadway actress, is cast as the part of Ariel. She almost regrets her decision, until she meets the director of the play...





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I literally just did TLM in school, and then I was like “omg this is a really good AU for TGT.” And so, here we are.

As I push open the doors to the theater, I hear the other actors talking. 

“The show opens in two weeks, how are we going to replace the main actress?”

“She’s unheard of, nobody is going to come to the show!”

“How are we going to take someone used to performing in off-Broadway plays and turn her into the next star?”

“Enough,” a voice exclaims. 

The actors go silent immediately. I walk down the aisle, and one of the actors notices me. He stands tall, his blond hair and sculpted, handsome face all contributing to his air of confidence and grandeur. He plays the role of Prince Eric in the show, and he certainly looks the part. 

He walks down the stairs to greet me. “I hear you will be our leading lady.” 

“You are correct,” I reply. 

He looks as if he is about to say something, then shuts his mouth. I turn around to see someone walking down the aisle. 

Saints, if I thought this actor was good looking, this man is practically a god. He has pitch black hair and pale skin, and a perfectly sculpted face. He wears a long black coat with elaborate embroidery on the hems, with a black dress shirt and black pants on underneath. 

He approaches me and offers his hand, his gray eyes boring into me. I extend my hand, and when he takes it, I swear I felt a jolt. 

“Aleksander Morozova,” he says. 

“Alina Starkov,” I say, praying he didn’t hear the slight croak in my voice. 

This man is a legendary director. He makes every show he directs amazing, and he’s been doing it for a long time. But he doesn’t look much older than me. 

He turns to face the actors, then says, “Everyone, this is Alina Starkov, our new Ariel. Since we only have a few weeks until opening night, we are going to have to start rehearsal immediately, and we will have a more intense schedule. Alina has already memorized her lines, so we only need to go over blocking.”

A girl on stage mutters, “Only.”

Morozova seems to hear her, as he fixes her with a glare. She goes quiet and looks at her feet. 

“Alright, let’s begin,” Morozova says. 

My eyes widen, and I begin looking around to see if any of the other actors are confused, but they are all starting to set things up and go backstage. I find the actor playing Eric and try to ask him what I should do, but he just mutters, “Just go with it.”

We start with the opening scene, where I mostly sit on a rock and watch as the sailors sing their song. When it is time to sing, I hesitate, missing the music. All of the music stops, and from the front row, Morozova asks, 

“What was that, Alina?”

“I, uh,” I stutter, rubbing my fingers on my palm. 

The director stares intently at me, face betraying nothing. He does nothing to ease my nervousness in the moment. 

“I’m sorry, but this is just a little too much all at once,” I say, though that’s not the only reason I can’t sing right now. “Is it possible that we could start rehearsing the scenes that I’m not in, and later start with my scenes?”

He waits a long moment before simply replying, “Alright. We will start with Daddy’s Little Angels.”

The actors and techies start moving, and I start breathing again. While it probably won’t do wonders for my reputation or standing with the other actors, I just couldn’t sing in that moment. 

Through hushed whispers backstage, I learn that Eric’s name is Nikolai, a boy named Adrik is controlling the Flounder puppet, a stern-looking man named Ivan is playing Triton, and Ariel’s sisters are being played by six girls named Genya, Marie, Nadia, Paja, Tamar, and Zoya. I notice that Zoya is the one who made the snide comment earlier, and instantly feel a pang of distaste for her. 

Two hours later, it is time for dinner. We pick our food from the catering tables, then sit on the ground or on the sparse tables in the lobby. The main actors, minus Genya, sit in a circle on the floor, laughing and talking about all of these things I haven’t heard of or experienced. 

Genya comes to my side and says, “You can sit with them, you know. You’re an actor.”

“So are you,” I respond. “I just-I don’t know if I would be welcome there just yet. I’ve only been here a day.”

“Less than a day,” Genya says, then adds, “Sorry.” 

I ignore her words, then ask, “So, you’re an actor, why don’t you sit with them?”

She looks down at her plate. “Well, I’m not...I’m not really supposed to be an actor. I was just a techie, a nobody, when the director noticed me and promoted me to be a mer-sister. The others get jealous of that, say that I’m only here because of my looks or the fact that I can look good in a seashell dress or that I somehow charmed the director. Even though I’m one of them, I’m not exactly welcome in the group.”

I don’t know how to respond. Genya seems so talented, so beautiful, so worthy of the stage. She’s an actor. I look over at the group, at Zoya eating a piece of pizza and laughing, the other girls laughing with her. My distaste for Zoya turns into a dislike. 

“Alina,” says a smooth, deep voice. 

I jump and turn around. Morozova is there, holding a mug and small plate of fish. 

Genya starts to move, but I touch her wrist. The director’s eyes land briefly on her, then go straight to me again. 

“I was wondering if you would dine with me, Alina,” he says. 

“Oh, um,” I reply, looking to Genya. She gives a faint smile. 

“I was just going to sit with some of the techies,” she says, smiling and hastily walking away. 

“I guess that means I’m available,” I respond, trying to sound conversational but probably failing miserably. 

One side of his mouth turns up in a smile, and he starts walking to a table. I follow. As we pass by the actors’ circle, I see Zoya look up at me, but I attempt to ignore her. It makes sense for Morozova to want to eat with me, to talk about the show and what he wants me to do and all the other things that go with being in theatre. 

Certainly not because he is damnably handsome and has, for some reason, taken a liking to me. 

We sit across from each other at a table, and I begin eating my casserole. He only takes a sip from his cup. 

“I’m sorry about what happened earlier,” I say. “With, with the singing, I just...I’m sorry, I was just feeling kind of nervous.”

“It’s alright,” he replies. 

No additional words. His expression does not reveal anything. A long moment passes before he speaks again. 

“I understand that nerves can be overpowering, especially in a situation like this. I would never wish it upon anyone.”

I nod. It really is a tough situation. The actors have been rehearsing for nearly seven months, and got their scripts even before that. I got my script a month ago, and the only practice I’ve had is with Mal, with him reading out every other part as I act as if I was doing it for real. 

“You know why I had to start the rehearsal so soon,” he continues. “And I’m sorry for it, but we must do as much as we can to have this show ready by opening night.”

I nod again. “Yes, I understand.”

He takes another sip, then leans back in his chair and clasps his hands in front of him. It looks as if he’s studying me. I slouch a little, take a sip of my water, cut into a new piece of casserole. He continues watching me. It’s an odd sensation, being watched. 

After dinner, we all gather in the theater. I except to rehearse more, but the director just tells us to gather on the stage. We do, and a few seconds later he begins talking to us. 

“You all did a very good job today. I don’t need very good, I need great. I expect you to be at your best tomorrow and every day after that until the show’s run is finished.”

If he is trying to intimidate me, it worked. 

“You are dismissed,” states Morozova. “I’ll see you at nine o’clock tomorrow morning.”

With that, he turns and begins walking away, his coat billowing out behind him. It isn’t until after he leaves the theater that the actors begin to move and pack up their things. I notice that all of the actors are putting on coats that resemble the director’s, but in different colors and embroidery. The only person I don’t see wearing one is Nikolai. 

“I see you aren’t wearing one of those coats,” I say as I approach him. 

“Was never much of a trend follower,” he responds. “I like to set my own rules.” 

He winks and starts walking up the aisle. I roll my eyes, a smile creeping up on my face, and start waking after him. 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One of my favorite chapters ngl

When my alarm goes off at 7:45, I groan and curse my decision to do this stupid play. But there’s no way I can quit now. I drag myself out of bed and to the kitchen. A brown banana and box of frozen waffles await me. 

I eat breakfast, get dressed, and leave the apartment in twenty minutes. It’s a decent walk to the theater, and I absolutely can not be late today. 

The walk doesn’t take that long. It’s 8:30 when I get to the theater. I stand in front of it for a moment, wondering what I should do. The theater itself is probably closed, and I have no money to do anything else in the area. As I am contemplating going to the park and practicing my lines, the front door opens. 

Morozova stands in the doorway, regarding me with a faint smile on his face. I rub my fingertips over the scar on my palm. 

“Sorry for being so early, I thought the walk would take longer, and-“ I stammer. 

He replies, “Why are you apologizing? I don’t mind when you are early, Alina.”

He waits a second, then adds, “It’s the late ones that should be apologizing.” 

He turns and starts walking into the theater. I hesitate for a second, then follow him. He sits down at a table in the lobby, which is strewn with paperwork and scripts and books. He nods toward the chair opposite him, and 

I take it, setting my bag down on the floor next to me. I have nothing to do, so I put my hands underneath my chin and look around, at the ceiling, the floors, the walls. I try to look anywhere else than the man in front of me. 

Suddenly, he asks, “Alina, could you sing for me?”

It’s a reasonable request. He’s the director, I’m the actress, tasked with singing in front of a very large crowd. And I’ve done it before. 

So why is this making me so nervous I feel like I’m about to throw up all over Morozova’s fancy coat?

I stand up and clear my throat. I picture myself doing it on a stage, dressed in seashells and a mermaid tail, the audience cheering as I finish…

I sing a few bars from Part Of Your World, the song where I think my voice is strongest. The director does not offer a reaction, just nods briefly. 

“I think you’re holding back.” 

I knew it. My voice wasn’t at its best in that song, but I had hoped we wouldn’t notice. 

“What’s holding you back,” he asks. 

I can only shrug. “I don’t know sir. But I, uh, I believe it’s just nerves.”

“You’ve performed in several shows before, all with an audience. Why are you so nervous now,” he says. 

I know that it’s true, but I can’t bring myself to wonder why my voice is like this now. Before I can reply, he stands up and comes to stand in front of me. 

“What are you doing,” I ask, involuntarily taking a step back. 

He grabs my wrist, and I feel a strange sense of surety. “I’m helping you.”

I feel slightly relieved, but a strong sense of worry creeps in. What if I don’t get better? What if he thinks I’m not good enough? 

“Can you sing?”

“No,” he answers. “However, I have a small amount of talent with the fiddle.”

I smile slightly, entertained by the image of Aleksander Morozova playing the fiddle in elementary school orchestra, his parents clapping and filming. The thought is erased when he grips my wrist again, harder this time. He guides my hand up to my abdomen, right under my breasts. I try not to focus too hard on his touch. 

“Your diaphragm is right here,” he states. 

I know this already, but certainly he knows that too. As I breath, I can feel my skin contracting and releasing under my hand. 

Morozova instructs, “Sing something.”

I start singing, and he raises a hand. 

“Your diaphragm is not moving enough,” he says.

I snap my mouth shut. “Well, I just started.” 

He does his asymmetrical smile again, and part of me is tempted to slap it off of him. 

“Try again,” he says. 

I start, and he lets me go on for five seconds before he stops me again. 

“I know you can feel it, Alina,” he says. “I know you can feel your hands, feel the muscle under them, feel how it’s not expanding to its full potential.”

I sigh and begin squirming. “I’m trying my  _ best,  _ sir.”

He holds my hand tight, keeping me fixed in place. “Try again.” 

I stifle my scream of frustration. He continues staring at me. 

After I don’t do anything, he asks, “Would it help you if you called me Aleksander?”

“What,” I respond, looking at him in confusion. 

“My name,” he says. 

I roll my eyes. “Yes, I know that, but...why?”

“Dropping the formalities,” he explains. “To help you relax.”

“Uh,” I say, unsure of what to do. “Alright.”

He looks expectantly at me, and I add, “Aleksander.”

I don’t miss the look that flashes in his eyes, a look of appreciation. Of desire. It makes me shiver slightly. 

Then the look is gone, and his normal, ambiguous expression is back. He instructs me to try again. 

The ‘dropping of formalities’ did not help. My voice still feels weak, and I can tell it frustrates him as much as me. 

“You need something else,” Aleksander says. “A better teacher.”

I wanted to insist that no, he is a fine teacher, but I know that’s not the truth. 

“I’m sending you to a woman named Baghra,” he states. “Your lessons start after today’s rehearsal.” 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I asked Leigh herself, and yes, Alexander plays the fiddle. Had to include it.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alina’s first lesson with Baghra, and Mal’s return home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a pretty decent one, imo. Also, I know what you all are thinking:Oh no, Mal...Well I can assure you he’s as bad as you think.

This rehearsal, I did sing, but it wasn’t any better than before. I remember Aleksander’s touch on my abdomen, his words, the way he looked at me when I said his name. I try to look at him throughout the show, but the lights are configured so that I can’t see the audience. But I can imagine him, his perfect beautiful face, his steel gray eyes, obscured slightly by dark hair. 

Backstage, I find Genya and tell her that I am having lessons with Baghra. I don’t tell her about the things that led to that lesson, however. Genya smiles wickedly. 

“Is she bad,” I ask. 

Genya begins laughing. I look on in frustration as she continues laughing, tears forming in the edges of her eyes.

“Is she bad,” she says mockingly. 

“Well, what exactly is she like,” I ask.

She stops laughing. Instead of answering the question, she just winks and says, “She’s an absolute treat.”

Rehearsal ends a few hours later, and I hang back awkwardly as the other actors find their things and leave. Part of me doesn’t want to be shamed for needing vocal lessons, and the other part of me doesn’t want them to know what Aleksander and I did earlier. 

_ God, Alina. It was just a director helping an actor. A necessary thing. It’s not like anything...happened.  _

But for some reason it felt like it did.

I find Aleksander. He grabs his satchel and backpack, then nods toward the door. We leave the theater and begin walking. We go away from my house, and I mentally cringe at the distance I’ll have to walk later. I’m somewhat surprised Aleksander does not have a car, but it’s hard to own one in this city. It’s almost comforting, to know that he walks just like the rest of us. 

We walk several blocks without talking. I want to ask him about Baghra. Is she really as bad as Genya says? Why does he send all his actors to her? Was he a student himself?

He stops walking, and I have to avoid slamming into him. We’re in front of a small, one story building. To say it looks a little worse for wear is an understatement. 

“Good luck,” he says, then turns away. 

“Wait,” I exclaim. He turns around impatiently. 

“Do I just go inside and ask for a woman named Baghra? Am I already registered? Do I need to pay or anything?”  _ Because if so, I guess my voice is staying exactly how it is.  _

“Just go in,” he replies. “You’ll see.”

He walks away. I throw my hands up in frustration, then turn to the building. The windows are covered by thick curtains. I wonder if I should knock on the door, but decide against it. 

As I push the door open, a blast of heat washes over me. It feels nice for a moment, then it feels like I’m being cooked. I’m standing in a single room, furnished with couches, tables, a stove, a fireplace, a TV. It looks as if I walked right into a person’s home. 

As I walk in, a voice yells out, “Girl!”

I jump nearly a foot. In the candlelight, I can’t see who spoke at first, but then I see her by the fireplace. The woman stands up and walks towards me. She is definitely old, but she doesn’t look it at first. Her skin is still tight around her face, her dark hair has only a few areas of gray. Despite her short stature, she stands tall. I take a small step back. 

“Are you Alina,” she asks. Her voice is rough. I wonder how much singing she has done over the years. 

“Yes,” I answer. “Are you Baghra?”

She gives a small, curt nod. I bend over to set my bag down, and out of nowhere, she hits me with a stick. I yelp. That could probably count as assault or abuse in this day and age. 

“Director says you are not singing right,” she says. She tucks the cane into the crook of her arm. “You need me to teach you.”

“I know how to sing,” I respond. “I just...haven’t been doing a great job recently.”

I look to the scar on my palm. What would Mal think of this? Would he even notice a difference? 

“What are staring at, girl,” Baghra asks. 

I close my fist and say, “Nothing.” 

She gives me a look, but I plaster a small smile on my face. “Well, how about those lessons?”

She frowns, then gives me a small whack on my calf. I grit my teeth and lift my leg to look at the injury. Baghra seizes my wrist, then instructs me to recite the alphabet backwards. While singing. 

The lesson is torture. She kept pushing me to go louder, stronger, more in tune, but I simply can’t. She has me stand on my head, recite a monologue, go outside and scream to the world. By the end of the lesson, I’m tired, sweaty, and still where I was an hour ago. 

She gives a huff of frustration, then turns away and walks back to her chair by the fire. 

“You’re dismissed, girl,” she says. “Go bother someone else with your weak voice.” 

I cross my arms and give her a look, but she is facing away from me. I grab my bag and leave the building, relishing the cool air on my skin. I haven’t had a drink in quite some time, but I know I can’t afford to buy one from a restaurant or store, so I begin walking home. 

I arrive at Mal and I’s apartment nearly forty minutes later. I’m exhausted and parched, and I go straight for the sink. As I’m chugging a glass of water, I hear the door open. I set down the glass and run to the living room. 

Mal is there, holding his suitcase in one hand and phone in the other. I run and give him a hug, and he pauses for a moment, then reciprocates. I end the hug and stand back to look at him. He still looks the same, brown hair and shining blue eyes, just...dirtier. He has a faint patch of stubble, and is overall more slouched and tired looking. 

“Are you okay,” I ask. 

He looks up from his phone. “Yeah. Just tired from the trip, that’s all.”

I step to the side as he walks into the hallway, carrying his suitcase to our room. He tosses off his jacket and throws it at me, and I catch it and hang it on the hook. 

“I’m taking a shower,” he states, then grabs something out of a drawer and starts walking to the bathroom. I curse silently. I wanted to take a shower too, at least splash some cool sink water on my face and brush my hair a little. But Mal just spent three hours on a plane and some more in a car, so I sat on the couch and let him take his first. 

My phone buzzes with an incoming text, and I look at it. The number is unknown, but the text asks, “How was the lesson?” I realize it’s from Aleksander. 

As I’m about to reply, Mal comes in and asks, “Who you texting?”

“The director,” I answer. 

He stops, then nods and grabs a shirt from the hooks on the wall.

I text Aleksander, “I don’t know if I could possibly forgive you.” It’s a bit bold, but hopefully he has a sense of humor.

“I wouldn’t forgive me either,” he replies. 

The edges of my mouth creep up in a smile. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I highkey loved writing this. Plus it’s an important one.


	4. Chapter 4

I wake up at 7:45 again. I’m tired, my body aches, my throat hurts from Baghra’s lesson, and at this moment I’m seriously considering dropping out of the show. Again.

But I think of Nikolai making a joke when someone forgot their lines, of Genya laughing when I commented that Zoya’s hairstyle makes her look like a grandma pumped full of Botox, of Aleksander holding my own hands over my diaphragm, telling me to sing…

_ Don’t think about that one. Stop thinking about that one. Nothing is going to come of it.  _

As I walk towards the door to our bedroom, Mal turns his head and asks sleepily, “Where are you going?”

“To rehearsal,” I say impatiently. I chide myself for my tone. Mal is tired. I can’t expect him to know what’s going on right now. 

He slumps back down and falls asleep immediately. I look at my bed longingly, then shake my head and leave the room. I am not going to quit the show. I know that. 

I eat breakfast and do my morning routine, then sneak back into the bedroom to grab my clothes. It is cold today, much to my chagrin. I’ve always preferred the sun. It makes things so much more pleasant. Even if you’re having a shitty day, at least you can go outside and feel the sun on your face. Plus, the clothes are cheaper. 

I leave the apartment slightly later than yesterday. I’m not quite ready to face Aleksander, to show him that my voice is just how it was before despite the lessons. I’m scared of what he might do, or think.

I arrive at the theater at 8:48, still a small bit early. Right as I am walking through the doors, a taxi pulls up, and Nikolai gets out. He hands the driver a fat stack of bills, then turns to me and waves. I wave back. 

“Why hello there Alina,” he says cheerfully.

I shake my head. “How can you be this chipper in this cold weather?”

“Well, there’s no reason the weather should change my mood,” he replies. “Why should I let it?”

I roll my eyes slightly. Talking to Nikolai was always an ordeal that ends with me being more frustrated and farther from the answer than before we started. I’m glad he’s here, though. It never hurts to be in good company.

As we walk through the doors, I see Aleksander standing in the lobby, typing something in his phone. He looks up as we step inside.

“Nikolai, Alina,” he says, giving each of us a slight tilt of his head. 

I don’t know what to say to him when Nikolai is in the room, so I begin to walk into the theater with him. Once Nikolai is a few feet away from me, Aleksander grabs my arm and pulls me back to him. 

“How did it go,” he asks, more urgent than I’ve ever seen from him. 

I press my lips into a ‘not so good’ expression. “Despite Baghra’s...methods, my voice is still not strong enough,” I say. I suddenly feel like I’m about to cry. 

“The show opens in a week and a half, Alina,” Aleksander says. 

“I know,” I reply. God, is he just taunting me at this point?

“I know that it’s coming up soon, and that my voice is terrible, and-“ I continue, my breath starting to come in shallow breaths. I sniff back a tear. I won’t cry right now. I won’t. 

He grabs my hand and puts it in his. His touch feels so good I feel like I might start crying even more. 

“Alina, stop,” Aleksander says. “We will find a way to fix this. I know we will.” 

He stares deeply at me. I swipe my other hand over my eyes, then look back at him. 

“But it’s hard,” I respond, my repressed emotions coming back into my voice. “I’ve been dropped into the show just days before it runs, and I’ve never done a show like this before, and I can’t find my own damn voice…”

I tilt my head back, willing the tears to move back into my eyes. I don’t know why I’ve started crying, why the emotions of the past few days have manifested in front of the director, who is currently holding my hand and watching me. 

“Aleksander, I-“ I start, but then the doors open. 

Mal walks into the lobby, holding his phone and a camera. I quickly pull my hands out of Aleksander’s and vigorously wipe my eyes, hoping to erase any sign that I had been crying. 

“Mal,” I say, walking over to him. “What are you doing here?”

“I just thought I would stop by, see you practice, maybe take a few pictures,” he answers, gesturing to the camera at the end. 

“I don’t,” I respond. “I don’t know if that’s allowed.”

I look back towards the director. He walks over to Mal and I, then looks between us for a moment. 

“Who is this,” he asks. 

“Sir, this is Mal, my best friend,” I state. “Mal, this is Mr. Morozova, the director of the show.”

Aleksander extends his hand, and Mal takes it, shaking it slowly. His eyes narrow slightly as he looks between us. Probably wondering what we were doing. 

“I’m sorry, but guests and photography are not allowed,” says Aleksander. 

Mal looks almost offended. He nods slowly, putting the camera in his bag. I can tell he is about to ask me something, then the door opens. Zoya walks in, wearing her blue jacket and with her hair in a topknot. Mal gazes at her, and she returns the stare. I don’t miss her eyes glazing over him, his body, his face. 

It makes me jealous, but not as much as I would have felt a few months ago. Before Mal started becoming what he is now. 

Zoya enters the theater, then gives one last glance back at Mal. 

“Alina, could I speak to you,” asks Mal. I nod, and we walk over to a corner, away from Aleksander. 

“Have you been crying,” he asks, though his tone is more accusatory. 

I don’t try to deny it. “Yes. But it’s not anyone’s fault, it’s just...I don’t know.” 

His mouth presses into a thin line, and I feel a small surge of frustration. For someone who doesn’t seem to want a relationship with me, he sure does get offended when I get upset. 

I walk away from him and go to Aleksander. He gestures towards the doors to the theater, and I go in that direction, him following me. I glance back one last time, and see Mal, standing in front of the door, looking like a puppy that had been kicked. 

Aleksander closes the door behind us. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It’s so hard to write a slow burn fic. I wanna get rid of Mal right now and have Alina and Aleks bang, but that can’t quiiieette happen.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Big things on the horizon...

As the days go by, my voice doesn’t improve. Despite the actors urging me on and Baghra pushing me to  _ all  _ my limits, I was getting nowhere. At this point I can’t even scream correctly. 

As I’m heading out of rehearsal, getting ready to walk to my daily torture session, when I see Mal in the lobby. I start walking over to him. In this moment, I’m so, so grateful for Mal, for his friendship, his loyalty…

Then I see Zoya, in her fancy coat and expensive clothes, walking to Mal. She extends her arms, then her and Mal come together in a hug. They walk outside together, leaving me standing there, holding my bag and staring at the door like an idiot. 

Mal didn’t even look at me. 

I push open the doors and start walking to Baghra’s, anger fueling my steps. It only takes me ten minutes to get there. I throw open the door, letting it slam, and sit down in a chair, crossing my arms. Normally I would hide my emotions more, but today is not the day. The woman stares at me, and I ignore her, looking instead at the walls and ceiling. 

She instructs me to sing, and I begin singing Part Of Your World. My voice sounds worse. 

“What is with you today, girl,” she exclaims, grabbing her cane from the couch. 

I don’t reply, just clench my fists. 

“Show starts in four days, and you are going to give  _ this  _ to the audience,” she continues. “Girl, tell me what is wrong!”

“Enough,” I yell. Baghra keeps her face neutral, but I don’t miss the look of surprise in her dark eyes. 

“I have been living with Mal for years, been the only one contributing money for quite some time, and for the whole duration of this show, I have been  _ struggling,  _ and what does he do to help me,” I yell. I don’t care about Baghra in this moment. “He goes off to fuck Zoya without even a second glance at me!”

My heart is racing. After a few moments, a little bit of sense comes back to me. Why did I tell this woman all of that? Why did I  _ need  _ to tell her that?

“Sing, girl,” she says. 

And in that moment, I let it all out. 

I sing loudly, almost a belt, my voice filling the room. I sound good. Great. 

In that moment, I know that I’ve cured my block. 

After I stop, Baghra grabs my wrist and says, “ _ Now,  _ we work.”

The rest of the lesson goes so, so much better than the ones before. She still beats me, still makes me do these ridiculous exercises, but I’m filled with the knowledge that now I can  _ sing.  _ I can tell she feels it too. 

When I go home, Mal isn’t there. I breath a small sigh of relief. I don’t want to think about where he is, but all I know is that right now I don’t have to face him. The small, still hopelessly in love part of me wants to tell him my good news, but I quash that feeling down. 

The next day, I wake up feeling more energized than I have before. As I’m getting ready, a sing a little tune, still relishing in the sound of my voice and the fact that I can sing and I’m not a total failure like everybody else in the show thinks I am. 

Mal still isn’t home. His things have been untouched. I’m not worried about him, though. I feel like I know exactly where he is. What he’s doing. 

I purposely arrive at the theater a little early. I want to tell Aleksander about the lesson yesterday. Show him what I can do. 

I know it’s foolish, he’ll learn anyway during rehearsal, but  _ saints  _ I want to show him. See his eyes light up, hear him praise me…

I get there at 8:25. Aleksander is sitting at his usual table, talking on the phone with someone. When he notices me, he looks up and gives a small smile. He says something to the person on the phone, then hangs up. 

“You’re so early, Alina,” he says. “Trying to grab the best seat to put your things on?”

“Just thought you would enjoy the pleasure of my company,” I reply, smiling flirtatiously. 

He raises an eyebrow, but smiles even more. I twist the straps of my bag nervously. 

“The lesson went great,” I blurt out. 

“Good,” Aleksander says. He sits back in his chair, looking expectantly at me. 

I sing a few bars. After I’m done, I clap my hands in front of me, waiting for his response. 

“That’s very good, Alina,” he says. 

An intense feeling of pride comes over me. It feels so much better to receive praise from Aleksander than Mal. I try not to think about that. 

“Is something bothering you,” he asks. 

My head snaps up. I didn’t think I was projecting my emotions that much. 

I guess my body language is enough, as Aleksander asks, “Do you want to talk about it?”

I sigh, then say, “Yes please.” 

He tilts his head up, his expression inviting me to talk. 

So I do. I tell him about Mal and I growing up together, performing in high school together, applying for the same college. I tell him about us getting an apartment, going to auditions, living like broke actors. I tell him about the time I got the main part in a show, and Mal didn’t get any part. He was mad at me until the show ended, then he went back to being my friend. I tell him about Mal’s reaction to me getting this part. He left the apartment, suitcase in hand, calling one of his buddies across the country asking if he could stay with him a few days. Hours later, I saw a charge on my credit card for a plane ticket. 

Aleksander watches me intently the whole time. It looks as if he’s doing a math problem, one that doesn’t quite add up. I feel more comfortable in his gaze than I should. 

I finish talking nearly 25 minutes later. It’s nearly 9:00. I fiddle with the straps of my backpack again. 

“Do you still consider him a friend,” he questions. 

I hesitate for a moment, then say, “Yes. But I don’t want to.” 

He doesn’t reply, just stands up and says, “Let’s begin the rehearsal.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter satisfies me a lot.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Very short chapter for now, because the next one’s probably gonna be a little long...

When I go backstage after singing my first song, the other actors look shell-shocked. I think Zoya has legitimate fear in her eyes. She finds a way to turn her nose up at me, but I can tell she’s impressed. 

“Wow,” Genya says. “You can actually sing.”

“Yes,” I reply sarcastically. “No, I got this part because of my stunning looks.” 

Genya laughs. If anything she should be Ariel. Long red hair, smooth skin, a perfect body. Her singing talents are impressive, too. 

_ Not as good as mine.  _

I repress that thought. “I don’t know, I just...at my lesson yesterday, something happened and I...let loose, I guess.” 

“Well, good for you,” she responds. “Good for all of us. Morozova’s going to be happy now.”

“Yeah, and with only two days left,” I say. 

_ Holy shit. Two days. Two days until my biggest opening night ever.  _

Then I have to go on stage again. We run the whole show today, only stopping because I hit my toe on a very inconveniently placed dresser. The rest of the show goes off without a hitch. When we take our bows, Aleksander is  _ smiling.  _ A real, genuine smile. 

Rehearsal ends early. Aleksander tells us to rest well and drink plenty of water, for we’re going to have a  _ very  _ intense rehearsal tomorrow. I ask Genya if the rehearsal will be as intense as he says, and she answers with a resounding  _ yes. _

My lesson with Baghra isn’t for another few hours, though I’m not sure how much I need it anyway, so I have some free time. I haven’t had that for a few days. 

I ask Genya if she wants to do something, but she says that she’s busy trying to woo a certain head techie. I ask Nikolai. He’s busy working on some new invention that involves wings on a boat and I don’t even want to get involved in that. I ask Tamar, Marie, Nadia, even Adrik, and they all say the same thing: busy. 

I huff and turn around, running into Aleksander in the process. I begin to mutter an apology, but he begins talking before I can say anything. 

“Your lesson isn’t for a few more hours,” he says. His lips break into a small, teasing smile. “Unless you want me to move it up.”

My eyes widen in legitimate fear, and he chuckles. “I wouldn’t do that to another living soul, Alina, much less you.”

_ Much less you.  _

“How did you find her, anyways,” I ask. “I mean, you send all of your actors there, even though you seem to hate her.”

“I don’t hate her,” he replies. “There’s a fine line between hatred and annoyance. I respect her.”

“You still haven’t answered my question,” I say, though his words impact me a little more than they should. 

He pauses for a long moment, then states, “She’s my mother.” 

I feel my jaw drop. Baghra is Aleksander’s  _ mother?  _ They don’t act alike. But they’re both into theatre. Both have dark hair and unusual eyes, and they have a similar posture. When he dropped me off at my first lesson, he was in a hurry to get away. 

“Yes, that’s about the reaction most people have,” he says. 

I realize that I’ve been standing still, processing this information for a good few seconds. 

“Other people know,” I ask. 

He shakes his head. “Well, maybe some have caught onto it, Nikolai definitely seems to notice something about it, but I haven’t told anyone else this little secret.” 

_ I haven’t told anyone else this little secret. _

“But why me,” I question. 

The corner of his lip tilts up. “I think you know why, Alina.” 

With that, he picks up his bag and walks away. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, that happened.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this isn’t actually a long chapter, since I decided to split it up, but I hope you enjoy it...

I arrive at rehearsal at 8:55. Maybe it’s because I need a good hot tea and bagel after my lesson yesterday. 

Or maybe it’s because I have no  _ clue  _ what to do about Aleksander.

Saints, does he actually like me? I don’t know why the idea is so incredulous to me. Maybe it’s the fact that I am skinny, short, stringy-haired and sallow-skinned. Sure, I’ve gotten more rested and well-fed since I’ve found my voice again, but I still don’t understand how a man like  _ him  _ likes me. 

I like looking at him, I’m not denying it. When I can’t sleep at night, I think of him, his all-knowing eyes, his smooth hands gliding along my body, my head tilting back to meet his lips...

Saints above, I can not think about this right before rehearsal. This show opens  _ tomorrow,  _ I cannot be having wet dreams about my director. 

We go scene by scene, with Aleksander making adjustments or critiques as necessary. By lunchtime, we’re only three quarters through the show. 

“Is he always this particular,” I ask Nikolai. 

“Of course,” he answers. “We can’t be, saints forbid, anything less than perfect in Morozova’s eyes.”

I noticed that the other actors always call the director by his last name. Has he told anyone else to call him by his first name? Permitted them to?

We resume the rehearsal. We finish the critiquing part about an hour later, then begin the full run of the show. Again, I hit my toe on the dresser, and Aleksander stops the run immediately to tell the techies to move it. They move it to another place on the stage, I place where I won’t run full force into it during a song, and spike that spot. I’m standing up there the whole time, switching from foot to foot as the techies do their thing. I try not to think about the pain in my toe. Instinctively, I look towards the audience, hoping to see Aleksander. I chide myself for it. Saints, I have to get him out of my head. 

They finish, and the music starts again. I resume my song, then finish and get offstage. We proceed with the rest of the show. 

I’m nervous throughout the wedding scene. The one where I have to kiss Nikolai. I’ve kissed him during rehearsal several times, all without a hitch, but for some reason this time it’s making me very, very nervous. 

Apparently I don’t show it, though, because Nikolai doesn’t give me strange looks and Aleksander doesn’t stop the whole show to ask what’s wrong with me. We sing the closing song, then do our final bows and exit the stage. 

We drink our water and take off our microphones, then go to the audience to listen to the director. He, surprisingly, tells us to go home and have fun. But not too much fun. I suppose he has to do that anyways, can’t overwork us the night before opening. 

After we disband, he comes up to me and says, “I wouldn’t make you all stay longer, I’m not a monster.”

I wonder if my emotions are showing very strongly, or if he can read minds. Hopefully the former. It might be bad for my acting career, but it sure would be better than the alternative. 

I try not to laugh out loud. I’m thinking about my director being a mind reader. Saints above. 

“What’s so funny,” he asks, lips quirked in a faint smile. 

I shake my head, covering my mouth with my hand. “Nothing.” 

I go to the lobby and see that it’s raining outside. Heavily. Shit. I don’t want to shell out the money for a ride share service, the other actors have already left, not that any of them would have cars anyway, and I currently do not have my metro card. I suppose I can walk home, or maybe to a restaurant or store to wait out the storm, but I really, really don’t want to. 

Aleksander comes up next to me. He looks out at the street, then down at me. 

“I’m calling a car home,” he says. “Would you like to join me?” 

My eyes widen, and I look up at him. Was he seriously asking me if I want to share a car with him? To go to his  _ house?  _

“We don’t have to go to my house, if that makes you too uncomfortable,” he says. Maybe he is a mind reader after all. “I have a certain restaurant in mind that you might like.” 

I know I shouldn’t. I can’t do anything with this man. I’ll probably never be in one of his shows again. I don’t know his age and I don’t think I want to. It would be very, very stupid of me. 

“Let’s do it,” I reply. 

He smiles and gets out his phone. 

A few minutes later, a black SUV pulls up to the theater. We run through the rain and get inside. The seats are black and embroidered, the carpets perfectly cleaned, windows tinted...it’s a very nice car. I assume he ordered a limousine. 

The car ride lasts for a few minutes, during which neither of us talk. I distract myself by looking out the windows. My mind is still reeling over the fact that Aleksander Morozova has asked me to  _ dinner.  _ I picture Genya saying, “Dinner is the surefire way to get to sex,” and push that thought far away. 

“We’re here,” Aleksander says. 

He steps out of the car, then offers me his hand. I take it and step out of the car, my foot landing in a puddle with a small splash. I groan. Yet another reason to love the rain. 

We walk into the restaurant. It is, surprisingly, not a fancy, exclusive one, but a casual one. People sit on old chairs and eat off of stacked up wooden crates. Handmade rugs and tapestries cover the walls and floors. In the corner, people play guitars, drums, banjos. It feels so welcoming, so homey. 

“Wow,” I breathe. 

“It’s nice, isn’t it,” he says. 

“I didn’t know places like this still exist,” I respond. 

“Well, they exist,” he replies. “You just have to know where to find them.” 

I wonder if Baghra ever took him here when he was a little boy. I imagine them here, sitting on cushions on the floor or old wooden chairs, watching the performers, eating cooked fish and steamed vegetables. 

A waitress comes to us and tells us to sit wherever we’d like. Aleksander looks toward me, and I choose a table with two chairs with pillows on the seats. The waitress hands us menus and leaves. 

Throughout dinner, we keep up a conversation, about our jobs, our thoughts, our lives. I’m reluctant at first to tell him about my childhood, about being an orphan, but he doesn’t judge me or ask any unnecessary questions. He tells me that he didn’t have a nice childhood either, but doesn’t elaborate. I want to ask more, but something deep inside stops me. 

When dinner is finished, he leans close and says, “I would like you to come to my house tonight.” 

It takes an entire fraction of a second for me to respond with  _ yes.  _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ooooohh...  
> Also, since I have a pretty decent kudos-to-hits ratio, I guess that means I’m doing something right.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The ~thing~ finally happens.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is not super explicit but it does mention some things in a kinda detailed way. Also a pretty good chapter in my opinion. Just Sayin’.

Aleksander calls a car, and I wait eagerly for it to arrive. It’s still raining heavily. I sneak glances at the man sitting next to me the whole time, trying to read his expression. His face stays unreadable, as always. 

_ Damnit.  _

He checks his phone, then stands up and starts walking towards the door. I jump up and follow him. We exit the restaurant, then get into a waiting car. I can barely register that it’s the same car as before before Aleksander’s lips are crashing against mine. 

I only register the feeling of him, of his lips, his hands on my neck and hair. I claw at his chest, all the pent up emotions and repressed feelings of the past few weeks coming out in this moment.  _ Saints  _ he feels good. 

After a few long moments, I break the kiss. I look into his eyes, those eyes that I love so much. His pupils are blown wide, his eyes raking over me. His breath comes in shallow pants, much like mine. 

The car pulls to a stop. He opens the door, then extends his hand. It’s exactly like what he did an hour before. So much has happened in an hour. 

We enter a very, very nice apartment building. We walk through the lobby and into an elevator, then Aleksander kisses me again. This one is slightly slower, less animalistic than before. I push him up against the wall, and he lets out a small chuckle. 

“What’s so funny,” I ask, my lips mere centimeters from his. 

“What happened to not getting romantically involved with the director,” he replies. 

“I think we’re way past that,” I say, and then the elevator door opens directly into his apartment, and all hesitations are lost as we enter the apartment. 

I wake up and immediately look for Aleksander. I find myself tangled under silk sheets, wearing absolutely no clothing. The blinds on the windows are closed, but I see small amounts of sunlight peeking out from underneath. 

_ Oh saints.  _ I don’t want to know what time it is. How late I’m going to be to rehearsal. How late Aleksander and I…

“We have to go, Alina,” Aleksander says as he walks in. He offers me a cup of coffee, but I shake my head. He takes a sip from it, then turns and walks out of the room. 

I get up and close the door, then look around for my clothes. I consider going back to my apartment to get new ones, but that’ll make me even more late, and my clothes from yesterday are unrecognizable, anyway. I go into the bathroom and find a spare toothbrush and toothpaste, then finger comb my hair and put it into a bun. All without speaking a word to Aleksander. 

When I walk into the living room, he’s waiting by the elevator. Without acknowledging me, he presses the button and gets inside. 

Once we’re inside the elevator, I turn to him and ask, “So that’s it? We’re just not gonna talk about this? About what happened?”

“What do you want me to say,” he replies calmly. “That I’m glad I did it? That I enjoyed having you on top of me, pulling my hair, moaning my name in that way I love? That I think you look especially sexy in black? What do you want me to say, Alina?”

I stand there for a moment, staring somewhere at the wall behind him, shocked. Sure, we...slept together, spent long hours doing exactly that, he was the one that initiated it, but... _ saints,  _ I’m still in awe about the fact that he actually likes me. 

Images from last night flash in my mind. Of me, laying on my back and propping my feet up on the chair legs, of him slowly pulling down my panties, the look he gave me afterwards, of him grabbing my foot, looking at the bruise from the dresser, then kissing his way up my leg, eventually landing…

“Was it something I said,” he asks, his voice serious but expression revealing the humorous tone. 

I tilt my head, smiling, then say, “Yes, actually. Several things. And...actions…”

He bends down and kisses me, and I eagerly respond. I begin to paw at his shirt, but he puts a hand on my chest, stopping me. 

“Not now,” he says. “We can’t.”

I know we can’t, I know that, but good saints I want to. I can tell he does too. Though he tries to conceal it, I see his dilated pupils, his reddened cheeks. 

_ I want you on top _

_ Never this much, never… _

_ “You’re perfect” _

“Alina,” Aleksander says, and I jolt as I come back to reality. 

The elevator has arrived at the ground floor, and we exit and start walking. He calls his car, and it arrives within moments. I think about the first day of Baghra’s lessons, of me and Aleksander walking there. I thought he didn’t own a car, that he lived like most of the working class of the city. How wrong I was. 

The car gets to the theater, and I notice that it’s only 8:22. I sigh in relief. I thought we were going to be  _ very  _ late. 

Neither of us make a move to get out of the car. 

“Why’d you made it seem like we’re so late,” I question.

“How else was I supposed to get you to move,” he replies. After a moment, he adds, “Plus, we can’t exactly be seen showing up together.” 

I nod. The other actors and techies are pretty low on my list of concerns right now, they’re definitely a concern. I don’t want to know what they would think or if they would even know or if Aleksander has done this before with another actor or what they would say about me. It’s better to be safe. 

“Do you have anything to do before we’re supposed to be there,” I ask. 

“Well, other than manage the fact that tonight is  _ opening night  _ and tickets are completely sold out and we are being judged for a very prestigious award, no, nothing at all,” he answers. 

“Okay, okay,” I reply, trying not to let his works sink in and make me more nervous than I already am. “But what you’re saying is that you have time.” 

“Yes,” he says, then his eyes widen slightly, and he looks toward me with a sly grin. 

For a moment, I’m scared that he will reject my offer, and part of me thinks it’s for the best, then he says, “You have such a pretty voice, Alina. Let’s see if you can put it to good use.” 

And then he is on me, in me, throwing off clothes and pulling back hair. It’s different this time. A little more cramped, more limiting. Slower. More possessive. 

My voice definitely goes to use. 

We step out of the car nearly ten minutes later, and he goes straight inside the theater, while I go to a nearby restaurant, waiting for others to arrive before I go in. I go into the bathroom and tidy up a little bit, then stare at myself in the mirror, a small smile on my face. This is the best I’ve ever felt. Ever. 

At 8:55, I stroll into the theater. The others look at me, and I hold up my drink in salute and say, “Let’s do this thing.” 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And there it is, the event we’ve all been waiting for. Hope I delivered. The end is on the horizon.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alas, we’re at the end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is pretty short, I wanted to make it longer but honestly I think it’s perfect the way it is now. Hopefully you like it.

We’re hours from showtime. Mere hours. I could barely keep down my lunch today, and no amount of reassurance and support can keep me from thinking that I’m going to fall on stage or that my voice will crack or I’ll forget my lines and they’ll consider me a failure. But all of those options are better than the one I dread the most; me doing my best and still being labeled a failure. 

As I put on my mermaid costume, the nerves only intensify. One of the last things I want to do is go on stage in front of thousands in a bikini top and tight mermaid tail. Though I’ve put on some muscle since I was cast, my limbs jut out at awkward angles, my skin is dry and pale, my breasts too small to fill the cups without padding. 

_ Well, I must be doing something right if last night is anything to go by.  _

As I’m putting on the costume, Genya comes in. She’s dressed in her mermaid costume, looking radiant and perfect, as always. The purple scales and gems on her face only highlight her amber eyes more, and the bikini top and tight skirt highlight her curves. 

“Are you ready,” she asks. 

I shrug and say, “Ready as I’ll ever be.” 

She comes over and hugs me, though it feels a little awkward since I’m not wearing any pants. 

“You’ll do great,” she says. “I believe in you.”

“Thanks,” I say earnestly. “Break a leg.”

“Break a leg,” she replies, then leaves and shuts the door. I finish getting dressed, then go to have my makeup applied. Mine is different than the mer-sisters, a lot more subtle. 

_ All the better to highlight my absolutely stunning facial features. Great.  _

Thirty minutes before opening. The techies mill around, checking our mics and adjusting our costumes, while the actors sit and talk, some reading over their scripts one more time. I sit in a chair near the stage, praying to every Saint I’ve heard of that this show, and every other one after it, goes well. 

“Alina,” Aleksander says. 

I look up with a start. He’s standing right in front of me, but he squats down to be closer to me. I know that it’s because we have to whisper backstage, but my cheeks still heat up at the close proximity. 

“Are you alright,” he asks. “You don’t look well.”

“I’m just nervous,” I answer. “You can’t exactly blame me.”

“I don’t,” he says. “I was this nervous before my first show. And many more after.” 

He grabs my hands and looks into my eyes. I can see the unspoken words in his eyes, and I can tell he is about to say something, but he squeezes my hands once and says, “Break a leg.”

He stands up and walks toward the other actors. I look down at my hands, then back up at Aleksander. 

Zero minutes left. The show has started. 

I sing my heart out, do my best acting, my best dance. Audience members are smiling. I can tell this is my best show. I know it. 

In the closing number, I sneak a glance towards the curtain. Aleksander is standing there, and he gives me a quick smile. I give him one too. 

_ And I can be _

_ Part of your world… _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whooooo and we are done! Hopefully you enjoyed this fic, and bye!


End file.
